tomorrow.'

Edith did not point out that Bruce, after specially ordering breakfast
punctually at nine, had come down at half-past ten.

'And now I must go.... The dinner was charming last night. It was only
spoilt by that empty-headed fool--what's his name--Reeve, who was
obviously making up to Hyacinth. Anyone can see she only endures his
attentions from politeness, of course. He knows nothing about anything.
I found _that_ out when we were smoking after dinner; and one can't get
a word out of old Cannon.'

Edith was putting Bruce's writing-table in order when she found an open
letter in the blotting-book, glanced at the signature, and saw that it
was from Raggett. So she eagerly read it, hoping to get some further
light on the mysterious man in whose honour Bruce was prepared to offer
so extravagant a festivity.

It was written on a rough sheet of paper, with no address. The
handwriting was small, compressed, and very untidy. It ran.--

'DEAR OTTLEY,

'Y'rs to hand. I shall be glad to dine with you, as I have told you
several times, and I would accept your invitation with pleasure if I
knew when and where the dinner was to be. These two points you have
always avoided mentioning.

'Y'rs truly,